THAT night Esmeralda had fallen asleep in her little chamber full of hope and sweet thoughts, the horrors of the past forgotten. She had been sleeping for some time, dreaming, as ever, of Phbus, when she seemed to hear some sound. Her slumbers were light and brokenthe sleep of a bird; the slightest thing awoke her. She opened her eyes.

The night was very dark. Nevertheless, she saw a face peering in at her through the windowa lamp shed its light on this apparition. The moment it found itself observed by Esmeralda the apparition extinguished the lamp. However, the girl had had time to recognise the features. She closed her eyes in terror.

The next moment she felt something in contact with the whole length of her body which sent such a shudder through her that she started up in bed, wide awake and furious. The priest had glided up beside her and clasped his arms about her.

Keep quiet, panted the priest. Suddenly in her struggles the gipsys hand came against something cold and metallic. It was Quasimodos whistle. She seized it with a spasm of relief, put it to her lips, and blew with all her remaining strength. The whistle came clear, shrill, piercing.

What is that? said the priest. Almost as he spoke he felt himself dragged away by vigorous arms; the cell was dark, he could not distinguish clearly who it was that held him, but he heard teeth gnashing with rage, and there was just sufficient light in the gloom to show him the glitter of a great knife-blade just above his head.

The priest thought he could distinguish the outline of Quasimodo. He supposed it could be no one else. He recollected having stumbled, in entering, over a bundle lying across the outside of the door. Yet, as the new-comer uttered no word, he knew not what to think. He seized the arm that held the knife. Quasimodo! he cried, forgetting in this moment of danger that Quasimodo was deaf.

In a trice the priest was thrown upon the floor and felt a knee of iron planted on his chest. By the pressure of that knee he recognised the hunchback. But what could he dohow make himself known to the other? Night made the deaf man blind.

He was lost. The girl, pitiless as an enraged tigress, would not interfere to save him. The knife was nearing his headit was a critical moment. Suddenly his adversary seemed to hesitate. No blood near her! he said under his breath.

Fortunately for him the moon had just risen. As they crossed the threshold a pale ray fell across the priests face. Quasimodo stared at him, a tremor seized him, he relinquished his hold and shrank back.

The hunchback hung his head, then went and knelt before the gipsys door. Monseigneur, he said in firm but resigned tones, you will do as you think fit afterward, but you will have to kill me first. So saying, he offered his knife to the priest.

Claude, beside himself with passion, put out his hand to seize it, but the girl was too quick for him. She snatched the knife from Quasimodo and burst into a frantic laugh. Now come! she cried to the priest.

She held the blade aloft. The priest falteredshe would most certainly have struck. You dare not approach me, coward! she cried. Then she added in a pitiless tone, and knowing well that she was plunging a thousand red-hot irons into the priests heart: Ha! I know that Phbus is not dead!